


The Weird Adventures of Lydia Martin, Certified Genius, and Stiles Stilinski, Certified Mess

by fleshkin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Magical Stiles Stilinski, New York City, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleshkin/pseuds/fleshkin
Summary: i don't know what this is and i'm not sure what to tell you





	1. Chapter 1

If Lydia Martin had to make a list of ten of her least favorite things, waiting for her chauffeur would be in the top five. She would also put going to high school (or any type of organized activity) in the top three, and putting on make-up only to be in the presence of highschoolers in the bottom five. If push came to shove, she would put going outside for anything less than a million dollars at the very top.

But there were things one had to do in order to succeed. Even if she was a certified genius and at age 12 had solved a equation that had troubled math geniuses all over world for centuries, Lydia knew that it paid off to belong. It came with the 'being human' act, or the 'hardcore hiding right in the headlights of the heteropatriarchy' project, as Stiles liked to put it.

It never failed to annoy her that she had to be driven to her posh private school in another gas-guzzling vehicle that would take up more space on the already-clogged streets of New York. She was a perfectly good driver, she had a Vespa that cut the trip in half, and the school had a carpool system she honestly didn't care for but would help her get closer to the children of the Fortune 500 (such as Allison Argent). Yet her parents insisted she be driven to maintain the image of a good Upper East Side girl, ensconced in the comfortable opulence of a well-established family fortune. As if people didn't know that their blue collar origins and that their money actually came from cashing in at the right moment during the dot-com bubble thanks to a certain someone's premonitions.

Lydia knew when to pick her fights, however. And today this was not her fight.

Her outfit today is immaculate as always and her make-up is camera-ready. Her homework is carefully tucked into separate, color-coded folders with their own notebooks. She didn't care about getting good grades, but she knew that in order to enter into MIT, Stanford, or any place that would get her within a ten-mile radius of a Higgs boson she had to at least get her high school diploma. But the same could not be said of Stiles. Standing next to her was what could only described as a steaming pile of hot mess.

“How long did you stay out last night?” Lydia quipped to the slouching figure casually holding a cigarette in his trembling hands. They stood in front of their brownstone and watched people passing to and fro.

The pile flinched and raised its head half a second later. Half a second later than usual. Lydia hummed to herself.

What wasn't covered by a giant hoodie and pretentious neon sunglasses had a smattering of moles and a greenish pallor. The mouth opened for a gaping yawn before answering, “Long enough to get shit done.”

The voice sounded it had been through three decades of nicotine addiction and only barely lived to tell the tale. It didn't sound like the voice of a skinny prep school kid toeing the line between hipster, normcore, and unwashed adolescent.

“Good. We can't let your nighttime activities affect our 9-5. Next time let me know if you need a hand.”

“It's fine, Lyds, I can handle it.”

Lydia's pout tightened as she eyed his pale, shaking hands stub out the smoke. “We'll talk about this.” The chauffeur arrived and both of them slid into the sedan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello here's allison oooOooo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ally has a panic attack

Allison stepped out of her shower just in time to see she had forty minutes to get to school. “Shit!” She scrabbled to get her clothes on and dry her hair with her blowdryer. She didn't bother with make-up, she could put some on later at her locker. But wait! She had to wear sleeves today. Where did she put her last clean long-sleeved shirt? Where?

Today's training was harder. Her tutor had used a set of nunchucks and she had spent a full ten minutes blocking them while trying to think of a counter attack. She'd been admonished for taking so long, but in the end a well-aimed kick mid-transition helped her loosen his grip and eventually knock them out of his hands.

It wasn't the smartest move (if her tutor wasn't already ninety and battling arthritis he might have used that to catch her foot and bring her to the ground), but it was the only one she could think of at the time. Her tutor knew it, and she knew it too. He'd given her a video to review later, which she'd probably pretend to.

She'd have to work harder, think faster, be _better_. Her heartbeat started to quicken, becoming a deafening roar in her ears.

She had to be prepared.

She had to be better.

She had to make sure she survived.

Just in case this ever happened in real life.

Just in case anyone came for her.

She felt the usual coldness seeping through her as the panic attack began and put her head down, trying to concentrate on her breathing and slowing her heartbeat. She counted from fifty as she tried to remember where she was and what she was doing. She’s in Astoria, in her own apartment, with sensors and traps on every window and doorknob set by herself. It was a Thursday, which was another day of school and homework then more training and then a late dinner before going to bed to start another early training and then school. Then she had her shift at the coffee shop round the corner until closing and then twelve hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday.

Nobody knew her at her job and nobody knew her family. She was safe. Also she had to make sure her shirts were ironed tonight. Then she could microwave some leftover chili and watch that stupid video until she fell asleep.

Slowly, she felt her heart slowing, her breath returning and her chest relaxing. She realized she'd been clutching the shirt to her still-slightly damp body for a good five minutes. Right. School. Don’t be late. She went back to putting it on.

If she hurried she could catch the bus, otherwise she’d have to take the train and get squished against some stranger. Who was she kidding though, she was going to get squished either way. Or groped. Yay for public transport, convenient and gross at the same time. Maybe she should take up Lydia Martin’s offer and try the carpool.

Turning around, she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw the damage from the last lesson. Her arms were covered in quickly blooming bruises, as were her sides. The shirt was definitely a good idea. Too bad it was her last clean one. All her clothes were in a pile in her closet or overflowing from her drawers. A bigger apartment with more than half a foot of closet space would be nice. Not like she could really afford anything luxurious.

Not yet.

Allison grabbed the rest of her stuff and put the thoughts of money and where it came from away in her mind. She threw her homework into her bag and tugged on her shoes before checking she had her wallet, mace and MetroCard. She shut off her lights before slamming her apartment door shut, about to jump down the stairs when something caught her eye on the floor.

There was a letter on the ground. Allison ground her teeth. She recognized the handwriting. There was no time for this. She was late already. She couldn't afford distractions.

She bent over and picked it up anyway, tucking it into her bag as she ran down the stairs.


End file.
